


I'll Be Damned Before I Admit To Being Particular

by Shenzuul



Category: The Witcher (TV), Witcher - Fandom
Genre: Blah Blah Blah I Got Myself Ensorcelled And Now I Need To Fuck, Consensual, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Jaskier Hangs Out With Roach It's A Thing, M/M, Nonverbal Communication, Sex with Clothes On, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24727969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shenzuul/pseuds/Shenzuul
Summary: "All right, all right," Jaskier said, holding up his hands in placation. "Anything I can do to help?""Not unless you can teleport us to Nalvern," Geralt said harshly. "Or you care to sit and spread your own legs." Geralt glanced over at the rustle of movement, then turned to stare when he saw how Jaskier had arranged himself."Well?" said Jaskier, grinning up at him.(Or: Jaskier would rather cut his own vocal chords than admit to unrequited feelings for one taciturn witcher, but when opportunity presents itself, the scene doesn't play out to his expectations.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 541





	I'll Be Damned Before I Admit To Being Particular

Jaskier was seated next to the campfire, mending clothes and chatting with Roach, when Geralt reappeared. Jaskier started, in part because Geralt was a day earlier than his earliest estimate and some of the shirts in Jaskier's pile happened to be Geralt's—he quickly kicked it out of sight next to his log—and in part because while the witcher had emerged from the woods silently, he was now rifling through their things—first his chest, now the saddlebags—in as much of a flurriment as Jaskier had ever seen him.

"Uh, Geralt?"

Geralt didn't spare him so much as a glance.

"You done with that rusi—uh, ru—whatever it was?"

"Wasn't a rusalka," Geralt grunted. "Got it, but it got me."

Alarmed, Jaskier set aside the tunic he was working on. "Are you going to be all right?"

Geralt grimaced. "Wasn't prepared for—" He snarled and threw aside his bedroll before reaching for another bag. "If I don't have any chamomile, it'll be an uncomfortable ride to town."

"But nothing serious?" Jaskier asked, relieved. Geralt shot him a glare. "All right, all right," Jaskier said, holding up his hands in placation. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Not unless you can teleport us to Nalvern," Geralt said harshly. "Or you care to sit and spread your own legs." He bit off each word as if talking physically pained him. He gave up searching the bag with a muttered curse, stood, and strode to the edge of the camp. There he braced an arm against a tree and stared into the darkness, a stony expression on his face.

Jaskier wondered if he could have understood the nature of the problem correctly. His eyes darted down in search of evidence, but Geralt had moved far enough out of the firelight that from this perspective, it was hard to tell. Jaskier looked back up, found the sheen of sweat on Geralt's forehead, saw that he was struggling to breathe evenly. _I hope I'm right about this_ , he thought, _else it'll be cursed awkward for both of us._

He eased himself off of the log onto the ground. Deliberately, he stretched one leg out in front of himself at a wide angle, leaned back against his former seat, and draped his arms over his backrest and propped knee. Geralt glanced over at the rustle of movement, then turned to stare when he saw how Jaskier had arranged himself.

"Well?" said Jaskier, grinning up at him. "Whoring around _is_ one of my plenitudinous talents." He hoped he'd kept any breathlessness out of his voice; Geralt would've heard it better than he could.

A look of disbelief passed over Geralt's face before the stony expression closed in again. Jaskier's heart began to beat a little quicker as he felt a flash of fear that Geralt might leave him hanging; then it did a flip and began to beat even harder the other direction as the witcher pulled himself away from the tree and slowly walked over, looming tall over Jaskier where he lounged against his log.

There was a long pause that might have lasted no longer than an eyeblink where Geralt stood over Jaskier, looking down at him with an impenetrable expression. Then he stepped over Jaskier's outstretched leg and lowered himself down, one knee then the other. Jaskier felt his grin about to stutter, so he slid it into a look of mild curiosity instead. He'd been this close to Geralt before—he invaded Geralt's personal space regularly, made a game-but-not-a-game of seeing just how much Geralt would tolerate of him—but there was something markedly different about having Geralt place _himself_ near him. Geralt seemed bigger, somehow; his nearness was suddenly overwhelming.

Geralt had paused again, glancing up into Jaskier's eyes. Not sure what Geralt was looking for (and very sure that his carefully crafted interested-but-not- _particularly_ -interested expression wouldn't hold up under that tawny gaze), Jaskier managed to cock an eyebrow. Geralt snorted quietly with irritation, and with no further warning, he wrapped a hand under Jaskier's thigh and bent forward to bury his face in the bard's lap.

Jaskier did _not_ jump, although his breath did. Geralt turned his head slightly and inhaled deeply through his nose. His lids were nearly shut, only a sliver of bright eyes visible under white lashes. His mouth opened slightly, and he breathed out. The heat sank through the fabric of Jaskier's trousers, making a shiver run up his spine. _Fuck_ , the bard had time to think as his body began to react. _Fuck, I didn't think this through._

Geralt adjusted his head again, fitting his lips against the hardening press beneath the silk, and wherever that thought had been headed was lost as Jaskier's focus zeroed in on the gentle pressure. For a cruel, lingering moment, Geralt held there, simply breathing. Then his mouth moved, lipping over the ridge. Unhurriedly, he mouthed up, down, tracing out the shape draped in fabric. Jaskier's field of vision tilted dangerously, the yawning sensation of falling that sometimes jerked one from the edge of sleep, and he had to grasp at the log to catch himself. Geralt shifted, planting the knuckles of his free hand into the dirt next to Jaskier's hip to brace himself, perhaps unintentionally locking Jaskier in place between that and the hand gripped under his thigh. Jaskier found himself looking down on a vast shoulder, a spill of white hair, and all the light, fresh air of a late spring night seemed to choke up at the top of his lungs.

In every scenario Jaskier had ever dreamed up involving some far-fetched excuse to get Geralt of Rivia into just such a position, Jaskier had pictured himself maintaining a stream of trivial, one-sided conversation and light jokes, fooling both Geralt and himself into believing that none of this meant anything to him. He had also pictured himself pantsless. He chose to believe the latter was why now, with Geralt _nuzzling_ his fully-clothed cock, his voice was too thick and his mind too full to produce any words. It wasn't— It wasn't—

And he wanted to seize Geralt's arm to steady himself, so he could _think_ , but he was too dizzy to tell if that was within the limits he'd imagined before all of this had suddenly become a very real situation—so it was probably _not_ , because he wanted to so desperately—and also it was possible that he needed to relearn how to breathe.

Then he was distracted, because he'd noticed that Geralt's stubble made a faint rasping sound as it dragged over his trousers, and he had to swallow hard.

Geralt lipped down to the base of Jaskier's cock and halted. His breath pooled there, hot. Tension coiled tight in Jaskier's gut, and he wanted to yell at the witcher. "Jaskier," Geralt growled, his fingers tightening almost painfully on Jaskier's thigh. "Make some damn noise."

And just like that, the block in Jaskier's throat was released. A long whine escaped him, unraveling the knot of complications Jaskier had been tying himself into. Geralt rumbled something that sounded approving straight into Jaskier's cock, and, so help him, Jaskier gasped. Geralt's hand slid up Jaskier's thigh around under his ass and _lifted_ , pressing the bard up into the damp heat of his mouth. Had Jaskier been so inclined, he might have swooned.

Instead, he raked his fingers into Geralt’s hair, rocked his hips up, and moaned for all he was worth. He was immediately rewarded by the hitch of Geralt’s breath and the renewed intention with which the witcher’s mouth besieged the silken barrier. Geralt abandoned exploration; it was now an all-out attack. Geralt’s tongue drew a thick line up the peak of Jaskier’s trousers, then followed with a light scrape of his teeth, electrifying the same path. Jaskier arched his back and moaned again.

Without letting up, Geralt gently set Jaskier back down. The hand fisted on the ground found its way to Jaskier’s hip and pinned it there, keeping the bard from twitching in search of closer contact. Geralt’s other arm moved, out of sight beneath the bulk of his body, but Jaskier heard the jangle and scrape of a heavy belt loosened and removed. There was a rustle of cloth, and then Jaskier felt rather than heard this hiss of Geralt’s breath in the way the heat stirred across him, an all too intimate sign that Geralt had wrapped his hand around himself.

Now Geralt’s body rocked with Jaskier’s to the movement of his mouth and tongue. Jaskier’s view was blocked, but his mind was full of the image of Geralt’s palm working up and down his own cock as his mouth worked over Jaskier’s. He had no control over his voice anymore. Insensate moans tumbled one over another, and if there were words in the mix, he had no idea what he might be saying. Geralt’s thumb rubbed soothing circles on Jaskier’s hip, and he was humming a deep pitch into the now very damp fabric over the bard's lap.

At some point, Jaskier's heels had dragged up to anchor him and frame his knees around Geralt’s shoulders; now the seam of his trousers pulled much too tightly and not tightly enough. When he yanked Geralt's wiry hair and made Geralt snarl against him, Jaskier realized with a thrilling jolt that he could _feel_ the witcher's fangs; even filed down, they were pronounced. Geralt dragged his lower teeth up Jaskier's length with agonizing deliberation, pulling Jaskier's spine into a steeper and steeper curve until they found and caught under the lip of his cock, and there they pressed until Jaskier, too breathless to cry out, could have split apart, and at that moment they slipped over the edge and snapped all of the tension that had built along Jaskier's spine, dropping him limply against the log, panting.

Geralt sat up and rocked back against his heels, the fist calmly stroking between his legs now in full view. Jaskier, boneless and spent, would have watched with appreciation, but Geralt gripped his jaw with his free hand and tipped his head back, forcing Jaskier to look into his eyes. Dazed, Jaskier stared into hooded pools of orange. Geralt's broad shoulders went tense; then his eyes fluttered shut, and his hand fell to Jaskier's collarbone, palm nearly over his still thundering heart, where Jaskier felt it shudder with the ripples that were coursing across Geralt's body.

Eventually, Geralt's hand steadied, and Jaskier's breathing evened out. Geralt opened his eyes, although his gaze seemed unfocused. Jaskier licked his lips.

"That...help?" he asked. He felt parched.

"Mm," Geralt grunted. It sounded affirmative, for Geralt.

Jaskier cleared his throat, dredging up the line he'd prepared for just such a moment, the one that conveyed that he'd enjoyed himself and would be open for a repeat in the future, but didn't make it sound as though he was so invested that he might be hurt if there wasn't one.

Then he thought, to hell with it.

"Good," he said. "Then I demand that you come over here and hold me. I'm not moving from this spot until morning, and this damn log is uncomfortable."

Geralt, halfway through rearranging himself in his clothes, glanced at Jaskier sharply. Jaskier held his gaze, defiant. And, to his shock—though he immediately masked it with a smirk—Geralt did no more than sigh, finish tightening his belt, and heave himself over to sit at Jaskier's side.

"Here, bard," Geralt grunted, lifting an arm. Jaskier, hardly believing it, leaned into the witcher's side. Geralt’s arm came down around his shoulder, and his chest rose and fell in another sigh.

Feeling daring, Jaskier closed his eyes and grumbled, "Next time, there had better be some undressing involved."

When he peeked up, Geralt was looking down at him with a raised eyebrow. But all he said was, "Mm." Affirmative.

[Download MP3](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/lie9pacubyw13ko/I%27ll%20Be%20Damned.mp3?dl=0)


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